c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-13–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-12–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-11–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-10–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-9–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-8–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-7–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-6–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-5–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-4–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-3–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-2–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-1–>c505218304b50c59c3659f6dda43bae7-links-0–>span style=”font-family: verdana,arial,helvetica,sans-serif;”>Dear Agnes,
I am a woman of maturing years, certainly, but I have all my faculties. I’m sure you know what I mean, Agnes, for you are likewise.
It’s the little people of this world who get on my goat!
I have vim (Remember Vim – the Cif of our day! Well, like that, without the abrasive qualities!).
I have the figure to go with my maturing years.
And I have a ‘fancy man’. I admit it.
But only to you.
Not to my husband.
So what? They’re all at it, aren’t they? Why not me and he, so to speak!
We don’t do it, anyway, so there’s little harm, is there?
It’s only ageism that causes those little people to cast their scornful glances, and whisper their hurtful remarks, when Rodney and I meet – just once a month – for Afternoon Tea in a nearby village patisserie.
It’s true we’re not as nubile or nimble as we were before. We might occasionally miss our respective mouths as we pass those thick cream buns across.
Please don’t misunderstand, Agnes. My words are meant literally!
Mrs Green approached me smiling broadly as soon as Rodney left last time to go home.
‘Did he come on the bus?’ she enquired sweetly, sniggering at her own double-entendre. I just ignored her but it hurt.
‘The old fiddler, you mean?’ I came back in quick riposte.
‘He plays the finest tunes’.
And then I walked off.
But I’m worried lest she tells hubby.
Should I tell him first?
Or should I leave well-enough alone?
P.S. This is not my real name. I would shudder to be recognised!
Darby O’Jones and the Little People! I’d never have guessed that wasn’t your real name. Darby, for your information – of Derby and Joan – was the MAN!
What happened, by the way, to the Confessional?
And why is it that every horny old bag identifies with me?
Are you two at it, or not?
Come clean (now I sound like you!).
What are you up to with those cream cakes?
Are you getting too much or too little?
I notice the fancy man gets a name but the long-suffering husband gets a title.
Personally I couldn’t care less where you stick your cream buns! Did it occur to you there might be some correlation between these and your full figure?
Nor do I care where Rodney sticks his – if you get my drift!
Just leave me out of it.
P.S. Dominic and I continue to enjoy the best of relations and the only neighbouring complaint comes from their dog, which howls in key and in unison with my ecstatic moans!